


Year 1

by unofficialsherlockian



Series: Sherlock at Hogwarts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock, Potterlock, Teenlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 15,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficialsherlockian/pseuds/unofficialsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chronicling John and Sherlock's first year at Hogwarts, from when they meet, to and end that brings them together. They are joined by Moriarty, Sally and others, as murders of school officials attract Sherlock, and small crimes around the castle make the two suspicious of a bigger plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started in 2011 and I've been trying to steadily update since.  
> Enjoy :)

'Hey! Hey, John!'

John turned at the voice that sounded slightly familiar. His name was a common one, and he knew no wizards. He couldn't possibly be the one who was being called. 

'John Watson?!'

So it was him who was being called. John turned fully around and saw the pudgy, be-speckled boy that stood before him.

'Mike!' John greeted, recognizing the boy. 'Wow, Mike Stamford. It's been ages since I've seen you. I didn't know you were a--'

'Yeah, can you imagine it? Me, a wizard?! My mum and dad thought I might turn out to be a squib, and that's why I was sent to muggle school. Same story with you?'

'Erm, no. My parents are muggles. What's a squib?'

'Oh…' Mike said, and then smiled. 'Well, it's kind of the opposite of you. Magic parents but the kid has no magic.'

'Ah.' John looked around. 'So is there anyone else I'd know? I need to find a compartment.' He gestured to his trunk and owl.

'Er, no. Not many wizards go to muggle schools—unless they're muggle-born.' He looked awkward. 'And I'd offer you space in mine… but it's full already. Sorry…'

John shrugged. 'It's alright.' Mike looked doubtful but John just shrugged. 'I doubt anyone would want to sit with me anyway.'

Mike cocked his head. 'That's odd.'

'What is?' John asked, taken aback. 

'Well, it's just…' Mike hesitated, and then hurried on. 'You're the second person who's said that to me today.'

'Was the first alone in a compartment and looking for a mate?'

'Yeah, he was.' Mike smiled. 'D'you wanna meet him?'

'Lead on.' John grabbed his trunk and followed Mike through the corridor. 

They came upon an almost empty compartment. Its only occupant was a tall boy with dark, untamed curls for hair and a long nose. The boy was deathly pale, and thin to the point of looking underfed. He was reading, but when Mike opened the door, the boy looked up, his piercing grey eyes looking quickly over John almost analyzingly.

  'This is Sherlock Holmes,' Mike introduced. 

John held out his hand. Sherlock Holmes put down his book and shook it, standing and saying, 'and you are John Watson, a muggle-born, from London, with an older, muggle brother.'

John must have made a face, for Sherlock's smile faded. 'Dammit,' he muttered. 'It's James, isn't it? No?' John had frowned. 'Justin? No, no, no… let me think-'

'No, it's John.' Sherlock's smile returned. 'I was just wondering if you could read minds and, well, the thought sort of disturbed me.'

'So I was right.' Sherlock sat back down, motioning for John to take the seat opposite him. John put his trunk above him in the luggage rack and sat down. 'Actually, some wizards can "read minds," but probably none of the students here. Mike,' he turned toward the boy who was standing in the doorway, 'you can leave if you want to get back to your friends.'

Mike gave a quick wave. 'Cheers, Sherlock. Nice seeing you, John.'

Sherlock stared out the window for a while, John watching him, interested. Then—

'Okay, John, you look like you've got questions.' Sherlock looked at him, a guarded expression on his face. 'Go ahead.'

John stared at Sherlock for a while longer. 'How did you know so much about me? We've never met before.'

Sherlock chuckled quietly. 'I didn't know; I saw. Your trunk,' he pointed above John into the luggage rack, 'has the marking "H Watson," with the "H" crossed out and covered by a "J". John is probably the most common male name beginning with that letter, closely followed by James, which was my second guess. It's obviously a handed-down suitcase, much better for a younger man than your father, so you've got a brother. He must be a muggle—I've never heard the name Watson before today. And I learned you are from London because your address is written on the tag.'

'Wow. I didn't know anyone looked that closely,' John said, shocked. 'Wait. How did you know that I'm a muggle-born? Was it just because I have a muggle brother?'

'Oh, no.' Sherlock smiled softly. 'You were with Mike, who had told me he'd been to muggle school. You were alone, still dragging your trunk, which tells me Mike was the only wizard you knew.  If you were a wizard-born, you would at least a few people here, through your parents. Besides that, only muggle-borns go to Muggle School, Mike was the only exception I'd ever met. And the fact that you're not carrying a wand.'

'What's wrong with that?' John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Protection, I suppose. All wizards carry their wands, and their children do the same from having seen it their whole lives.'

John nodded, opening his trunk and pulling out his wand, leaving it beside him on the seat. Then he frowned. 'But you're not sitting with other wizards either. But you don't talk like you're a muggle-born…'

Sherlock looked out the window again, suddenly gloomy. 'No, I'm a half-blood. I'm alone because people normally don't get on well with me.'

'Why not?'

Sherlock looked up and saw that John seemed genuinely puzzled. 'Because what I just did there—People hate me for it.'

'Why?' John shook his head. 'That was amazing.'

Sherlock turned his head to John. 'Really?'

John nodded. 'Really, it was.'

Sherlock sat back, looking away from John awkwardly. 'That's not what everyone else says…'

'What does everyone else say?'

'"Piss off, freak,"' Sherlock said quietly, attempting to smile, but the grin never quite made his eyes.

John grinned, shaking his head. 'Well, obviously, they've got problems.'

Sherlock looked over at John. 'You think so? So you're okay with…me?'

'Yeah, really. I don't see why I wouldn't be,' John said, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock was quiet for a while. Then, 'Thank you,' he said softly.

There was a loud meow from next to Sherlock, making John jump. 

'Oh, yeah.' Sherlock bent over the carrying cage. 'You don't mind cats, do you?' John shook his head. 'Good.' Sherlock released the catch and a handsome cat sprang out.

The cat was tan, with brown on the tips of its ears and a little brown on its chest. It jumped to the floor, smelled John's trainers, and then leapt into Sherlock's lap, surveying John with its light blue eyes.

'Nice cat,' John commented honestly.

Sherlock smiled, stroking the cat's head. 'This is Sigerson, a very mischievous little furball,' he introduced fondly.

Sigerson jumped next to John, forcing his head under John's head to be petted. John complied and Sigerson purred.

'He's never taken to a stranger that fast,' Sherlock said, eying John thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. 'So, about you. Did I get anything wrong?'

'The trunk isn't mine,' John said slowly. 'Well, it is now. It belonged to my older sibling, Harry. And Harry is a muggle.'

Sherlock looked surprised. 'Really? Everything right? There's normally—'

John held up a hand. 'Harry's short for Harriet. She's my sister.'

'Your sister…SISTER!' Sherlock shook his head and then laughed a little. 'There's always something…on initials alone…' He grinned. 'So, you've got an owl. That's pretty cool.'

'Yeah. Her name is Imogene.' John smiled. 'She's a lot messier than a cat, but just as nice…'

'And you can send post without the school owls,' Sherlock pointed out.

John nodded. They sat for a long time, talking.


	2. Meeting

Later on, a woman came with a food cart. John had been too nervous that morning to eat anything, but now he was starving. So he followed Sherlock out of the compartment and came back with a variety of sweets.

Sherlock was seated, nibbling on a pumpkin pasty, a chocolate frog beside him, guarded by Sigerson, who also had a pasty.

'Hungry, then?' Sherlock nodded to John's pile of snacks.

'Very.' John quickly ate a pasty and then followed Sherlock's example and picked up a chocolate frog, examining it carefully. 

'Don't worry; it's not a real frog,' Sherlock assured him.

'I figured. But then again, I thought I'd better be sure. You never know around here.'

Sherlock picked up a card from the wrappings. 'Here, do you want the card from mine? A lot of people collect them, but I've only kept a few. It's Morgan Le Fay…'

'Sure.' John reached for the card and then peered at his own. 'So, this was Godric Gryffindor?'

Sherlock nodded. 'That's one of the few I've kept. Founder of one of the houses.'

John nodded, watching Gryffindor lift a sword. 'So which house would you be in? Or which d'you think you'd be in?'

Sherlock sat back, looking gloomy again. 'I dunno. If I had a choice, Gryffindor. But I've heard a lot of my family have been in Ravenclaw…' He trailed back, looking downcast.

'I bet I'll be in Hufflepuff,' John said. 'I'm to boring to be in any of the others.'

'You're not boring to me,' Sherlock said softly. "And Hufflepuff isn't a boring house."

The compartment door slid open. 'Ah, Sherlock Holmes.' A mocking voice accompanied a thin, short boy into the compartment. He was flanked by two other boys. He briefly glanced in John's direction, and looked back to Sherlock. 'I didn't have enough time to introduce myself when we met earlier,' he went on. 'Jim Moriarty. Hi.' He lifted a hand and waggled his fingertips, waving. 'I believe my father knew your mother.' He held out his hand.

'Yeah, I think they did know each other.' Sherlock didn't shake Moriarty's hand. 'Is that all?'

'No, no, no…' Jim said, casually dropping his hand as if he hadn't been rejected. 'But we've both gained some companions since we met last. Care to do some introductions? It's only polite, you know.'

Sherlock sighed, looking annoyed. 'This is John Watson.'

John nodded to Moriarty. 

Moriarty sneered. 'This is Moran and Klein.' He nodded to each of them in turn. 'Well, Sherlock, as I told you before, I am a Slytherin prefect, and I would be more than happy to aid you here.'

'And you think I'll be in Slytherin as well?' Sherlock asked, clenching his fist beside him.

Moriarty smiled tightly. 'We have…similar dispositions. Slytherin is where you belong, Sherlock. All you have to do is choose the right side.'

'And I would have to choose a side?'

'Ah.' Moriarty smiled again, seemingly sympathetic. 'There's a war brewing, Sherlock. You're either part of the solution, or one of the problems.'

'We just had a war,' Sherlock said shortly, his voice tense. 'I assume you're taking your father's side, and adapting his old solution. And honestly, I agree with my mother, it's just wrong.' He glared at Moriarty. 'So, perks or not, I'm not siding with you.'

Moriarty's eyes narrowed and he glared at Sherlock. 'Your mother was a stupid cow, Sherlock. Keep it up and you'll fall just as she did—'

Sherlock leapt from his seat and flung himself into Moriarty, slamming the other boy into the wall opposite the compartment. Sherlock raised his fist, but then Klein and Moran each grabbed one of Sherlock's arms and flung him into the compartment door. Klein punched Sherlock's face and Moran hit the boy in the stomach. Sherlock slid down the compartment door and onto the floor as John rushed out.

'How dare you touch me?' Moriarty demanded, aiming a kick at Sherlock.

John's fist hit Moriarty's face before the other boy's foot could connect with Sherlock. 'Leave him alone.' John's voice was quiet, but dangerous as he positioned himself between Moriarty and Sherlock. He was shorter than any of the other boys, but John was burlier. Three versus two wasn't good but he was sure he could take down at least one of them if he had too.

Moriarty stepped back. People were beginning to poke their heads out of the compartments, wondering what was going on. 'Know your place, Johnny-boy,' Moriarty hissed. Then he left, flanked by his two companions.

'I think I just figured it out,' John muttered. Then he helped Sherlock into the compartment.

Sherlock's mouth and nose were bleeding and he was slightly out of breath. 'You didn't have to do that, you know,' he muttered, trying to staunch his bloody nose in his t—shirt. Sigerson mewed and gently licked Sherlock's other hand. Sherlock stroked the cat reassuringly.

'No,' John answered. 'No, I didn't have to. But I did, so don't worry about it.' He sighed, looking at the boy before him. 'Tilt your head back; it'll help your nose.'

Sherlock sniffed, looking like a sullen young child. John almost laughed, but instead leaned forward and pushed the other boy's forehead until Sherlock tilted his head back. 'Well…thanks for helping anyway,' Sherlock said quietly.

The compartment door opened and the two sat up quickly in case of another fight. A tall girl with light brown skin and a mop of springy hair stood in the door way. She frowned at them both.

'The fight that we heard, did it involve you two?'

Sherlock looked sardonically at the girl who had just entered. 'No, I'm just bleeding out from my nose because I find it funny. Obviously we're the ones. Who are you?'

She huffed annoyingly. 'Sally Donovan. And you shouldn't be fighting—there are prefects around who can get you into trouble.'

'Yeah, we just met one of them, thanks,' John snapped.

'You were fighting a prefect?' Sally gasped.

'Yeah,' Sherlock said, wiping blood from his face. 'Now unless you've got something useful to tell us, clear off!'

"Like I'd want to stay here with two nutters trying to get expelled on their first day." She frowned at him. 'Suppose you won't even change into your uniforms--we're supposed to be there soon.'

'Did your three older sisters tell you that, or are you just showing off because you're trying to be that clever?' Sherlock asked, looking bored and annoyed.

Sally frowned. 'Freak!' She spat, and then left angrily.

Sherlock's face was hardened, but he made an effort to look amused. 'Told you.'

John shook his head as he started to put on his uniform. 'I don't mind it.' He looked, annoyed, where Sally Donovan had stood. 'Hope she's not in whatever house I'm in.'

'Yeah, me too.' Sherlock had brightened considerably with John's words.

'How did you know she had three older sisters?' John asked curiously.

'You really want to know?' Sherlock looked surprised. John nodded. 'Well, she's already in her uniform. All her clothes are used—that suggests an older sibling. But they're very worn. They've been around for at least three years. She's a first year and she's wearing them—people grow out of their clothes after a year when they're our age. So her siblings couldn't have had them more than a year each. So she has three older sisters and, judging by her snobby attitude, is trying to prove herself above them.'

John shook his head. 'What?' Sherlock asked.

'You are amazing,' John said, looking very impressed. Sherlock blinked and then grinned a little. 'I hope we're in the same house,' John continued.

Sherlock's grin faded slightly and he looked nervous. 'Me too.'


	3. The Sorting

'Good evening, first years, and welcome to Hogwarts. I'm Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration teacher here.' McGonagall looked at them all sternly. 'Before you can all take your seats in the Great Hall, first you must be sorted into one of our four houses�-Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin.' John glanced at Sherlock who was scowling. 'Each house has their own achievements and have each brought forth some excellent students. I can only hope you all aspire to do as well.' She paused, looking them over. 'Now wait here quietly, please, while I see if we're ready for you.'

'What do they do to sort us?' John asked nervously, glancing around and seeing that the others were looking just as scared. He saw Sally Donovan whispering furiously to a thin boy with a sour expression.

Sherlock appeared to be bored, but his voice was slightly nervous. 'Apparently, we put on a hat and it can tell what house we'll be in.' 

McGonagall reappeared. 'Follow me, please.'

John looked around the Great Hall as they entered. He was amazed at the ceiling, charmed to look light the starry night sky, and the floating candles, their flickering light giving the Hall such a warm look.

McGonagall placed a battered hat on a stool and it proceeded to sing. Then she turned to look at them all. 'Now when I call your names, you will come up here to be sorted.'

A few names were called before John recognised one he knew.

'Donovan, Sally!'

Sherlock made a scathing noise as she was put in Ravenclaw. John felt slightly relieved; that was one house he'd never be in.

'Klein, Manfred!' came later. Sherlock and John watched as Moriarty's lackey was placed in Slytherin. Sherlock rubbed bruised nose gently, looking slightly angry.

A few minutes later�

'Holmes, Sherlock!'

John spotted a few older Slytherin students and several teachers look up in interest.

The hat sunk deep over Sherlock's eyes when it was placed on his head.

'Hmmm� another Holmes, seven years later. Ravenclaw would be the obvious solution�but it seems there's a bit more to you than brains.'

Sherlock was quiet, trying not to let his thoughts wander.

'Clearly, you don't want to be overshadowed by your brother�...there is a lot of darkness in you, for one so young�...a lot of need to prove yourself, to be better than others�--though not always in the best sense, no matter what you do to succeed.' The hat paused. 'Slytherin would suit you very well�...yes. But...�but there is also light in you, Sherlock Holmes--�and others might be able to draw that out from you. Bravery, a desire to seek justice hmm...'

Sherlock didn't know what he wanted to do. He didn't want to be in Slytherin, not where his enemies where, but he also didn't want to be influenced by anyone.

'I think�' and then the hat shouted it to the whole Hall, '�Gryffindor!'

The Gryffindor table applauded loudly and John watched as Sherlock walked past the other students and sat down, slightly apart from everyone else, looking thoughtful.

When most of the other students had been sorted, John's name was finally called.

'Ah,' the hat murmured. 'You are interesting. Loyalty is your strong point, so your obvious place would be Hufflepuff...�but your best quality is the bravery resting in you. You are a light to guide others out of the fog, and you have the power to stimulate that light in one who may soon be shrouded in darkness. I think you a definitely a�--Gryffindor!'

The Gryffindor table applauded as John walked over slightly bemused. Several people were smiling at him, moving over on the benches so as to give him a seat, but he ignored them all, walking determinedly and taking the seat beside Sherlock. Sherlock smiled gratefully.

Dinner passed rather quickly with much excited chattering. Sherlock and John were mostly quiet, enjoying each other's company. Finally, Dumbledore rose and began to speak.

'So, another term! And, once again, it appears we have some excellent first years among us! A few things to make note of�the Dark Forest is out of bounds to ALL students. And swimming in the lake after dark is prohibited. We don't want any accidents. First years, you are not allowed brooms, and anyone with brooms should not be flying near the castle. Last year, Mr. Filch, our caretaker, had to replace too many of the shingles on the roof.

'Other than that, I wish you all the best of luck this year. Now, off to bed!'

They were led to the Gryffindor common room by two perfects who introduced themselves as Damen Palomer and Susan Pinkerton. Soon, they were all crawling through the portrait of the Fat Lady after Damen had said the password (pimply puffpod) and were heading up to bed. 

Sherlock and John shared a dormitory with three boys�-Bill Murray, Victor Trevor, and Matthew Pattins.

They all changed into their pyjamas and then John turned to Sherlock, who was standing looking out the window, a hopeful, wistful look on his face. 'I think I'll like it here,' John said. 'This is really great.'

Sherlock smiled slightly, his face relaxing and looking peaceful for the first time since John had met him. 'Yeah. Yeah, it is.'


	4. The First Day

'Morning.' Sherlock spoke quietly as he pulled on his robes.

John yawned and began climbing out of bed. 'Morning.' He looked out the window to see the sun shining across the grounds. 'Nice day…'

'Mmm.' Sherlock looked neutral. 'You coming for breakfast, or what?'

John followed Sherlock to the Great Hall where they sat at the Gryffindor table. John filled his plate with food whereas Sherlock nibbled on a piece of toast while sipping a glass of pumpkin juice. The boy didn't seem to eat much

A handsome, proud-looking barn owl brought a letter and a copy of the Daily Prophet to Sherlock. Sherlock quickly read the letter and then snorted, looking disdainful as he picked up the Prophet.

'What is it?' John asked curiously.

Sherlock sighed. 'Letter from my brother. Yeah, I've got a brother,' he added at John's look. 'Mycroft, seven years my senior. He's a git, not much to say about him, but basically he's pretending to be glad that I'm in Gryffindor, while he's actually scolding me for not being in "at least" Ravenclaw.' Sherlock shook his head.

'I take it he was in Ravenclaw,' John said, eating his bacon. 'So he's left, right? What's he do now?'

'He's sort of working for the Ministry,' Sherlock said doggedly. 'And no, he was in Slytherin. He's incredibly smart, but with no ambition and no energy. He's way too devious and cunning to be in any other house. Of course he assumed that I'd be in Slytherin, and if not there, Ravenclaw. But it looks like I've disappointed him in every way.'

Their first class was Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws. Sherlock looked interested for less than five minutes, and then spent the rest of class drumming his fingers on the desk, distracting John slightly. Sally Donovan, however, looked riveted by everything McGonagall had to say, sitting up and hanging onto the professor's every word.

'So…class isn't worth anything?' John asked as they headed out for potions.

'It's worth something…' Sherlock muttered. 'Just not that first day twaddle. I expect we'll be getting some of the same in potions.'

'Do you think potions'll be any good?' 

Sherlock shrugged. 'It sounds interesting. I hear Snape's hard, though. Supposedly he hates everyone-expect the students in his own house.'

'Which house is his?'

'Slytherin.' Sherlock grimaced. 'And I assume we have class with them,' he said, looking at the queue before the classroom door.

Snape was menacing and when he called attendance, he paused at Sherlock's name, his eyes flickering to the tie around Sherlock's neck, and a nasty frown spreading across his face.

Almost immediately, after a brief and serious lecture about how dearly he hoped they were all bright enough to be in this class; Snape had them set to work on a simple sleeping potion. Or, at least what he said was simple. John was having enough trouble deciphering the instructions.

'Not enough leeches, Watson!' Snape spat after rounding the room. 'And too much powdered bicorn horn!' He turned to look at Sherlock who had paused, listening.

'Get back to work, Holmes!' Snape gave Sherlock's perfect-looking potion a withering look and swept away.

Sherlock bent over John's potion. 'Here—' and he whispered instructions to John who, with Sherlock's help, was able to salvage his potion by the end of class. Snape glared at them as they made to leave.

'Holmes!' he said dangerously. 'Very nicely done—making Watson's potion for him.' His eyes narrowed. 'Ten points from Gryffindor. Do not encourage me to take any more.'

'I'm sorry about that,' John said quietly as they entered the hallway.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Better me getting in trouble than him failing you.'

John was quiet. 'Thanks for that.' He looked at Sherlock. 'You know, you're really good at potions.'

They walked outside for that period, not having a class and Sherlock insisting that he wasn't going to do Snape's homework yet. A group of students were by the lake, watching two second-years who were swimming. They appeared to be racing, judging by the cheering; one boy was far ahead of the other.

'Who's racing,' John asked, impressed.

A Hufflepuff third year turned around. Sherlock was at least two inches taller than her and she stepped back in surprise, blushing. 'That's Carl Powers in the lead. He's the only one you need to know about of anyone that swims. He's muggle-born. Used to swim before he got here.

'Hmm.' Sherlock nodded politely, looking disinterested.

The girl smiled. 'Who're you? I haven't seen you around—are you in our year?'

Sherlock spared her a glance, frowning. 'I'm a first year.'

'Oh.' The girl blushed again. 'I'm Alyssa.'

'Okay.' Sherlock continued to watch the swimmers, absently. Alyssa waited for a moment and then turned around, sighing.

Carl Powers won the race. Apparently, by the chattering, he wasn't just a good swimmer. He was good at everything, from school to friends to—

'What's Quidditch?' John asked Sherlock as they went back inside for lunch.

Sherlock sighed. 'It's a sport— _the_ sport, if you ask most people. Played on brooms, four balls, three goal hoops to a side…'

'And it's played here?' John asked, getting excited. He was always a sports fan. 'Cool. Do you play?'

'No.' Sherlock said shortly. 'Besides, first years aren't even allowed to own a broom. And anyways, I'm not what you would call the athletic type.'

'I want to learn,' John said. 'Used to play rugby with some of the neighborhood kids.'

Sherlock blinked. 'We should watch the first match when it happens then.'


	5. Professor Rathe

The rest of the week passed quickly for John, now that classes were getting more interesting. Even Sherlock seemed to come out of his gloom and was enjoying most of what they were learning. John found Sherlock interesting. The boy cared somewhat for Transfiguration and Charms, but flat out refused to memorise star charts for astronomy, pronouncing them a waste of his time. His Herbology skills were alright, when it came to poisonous or otherwise dangerous plants. But if they plants they studied were boring, Sherlock could care less. Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts were by far Sherlock's best subjects, and the two he was most enthusiastic in.

John, on the other hand, was still having trouble in potions. Snape seemed to go out of his way to insult anyone in Gryffindor, especially if they were doing poorly in his class. Sherlock was spared slightly, because of his skill, but then shouted at loudly in front of the class for trying to help John. However, Sherlock seemed to act like he didn't mind. John noticed a weird look in Sherlock's eyes when he assured him it was fine.

John liked Herbology probably the best, the plants they studied were fascinating, even if Sherlock found them boring. And he loved the dangerous ones almost as much as Sherlock did. But he loved most how many plants had strange but incredible healing powers.

Both Sherlock and John agreed that History of Magic was a complete waste of time. John had no memory for dates, and Sherlock only knew dates of crimes or big bloody events, so they both did other work during Binn's class.

Professor Rathe, of Defence Against the Dark Arts, seemed to love Sherlock. John thought the Professor was slightly creepy, but enjoyed the class enough.

'I had your brother his second year,' Rathe announced to Sherlock. 'He was excellent, most excellent. But he lacked a certain imagination. Perhaps that's why he went into the Ministry.'

Sherlock shrugged.

'You seem driven, however,' Rathe continued. 'I would have thought Slytherin a good fit for you.'

Sherlock flinched but Rathe smiled. 'Ah well, we all try to advertise the house we were in, don't we?' And he started class.

I feel like I know him from somewhere,' John muttered to Sherlock as they entered their dormitory after on of Rathe's lessons. He dropped his books on his bed and then bent down to pet Sigerson, who was busy sniffing his shoes. John frowned. The cat had been doing that a lot lately.

'You should know him,' Sherlock said, his voice slightly dark. 'He's Moriarty's uncle.'

John blanched. 'What? Then why does he like you so much?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Probably wants me to be friends with Moriarty or something. Which obviously isn't happening.'

'So what happens when he finds out you don't like his nephew?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'He'll probably start treating me how Snape treats you.'

'I think he liked your brother too much.' John looked at Sherlock. 'From what I've heard, he seems like the boring child.'

Sherlock laughed loudly, the first time John had ever seen him do so. 'Yeah. Yeah he is the boring child. And the perfect child.'

John shook his head. 'There's no way you can be boring and perfect.' He looked at Sherlock. 'Though you can't be you and perfect either.'

'You're probably right.' Sherlock was still smiling a little, admiration for John in his eyes. 'I'm way too messed up to be anything close to perfect.'

They went to the common room and started on an essay for McGonagall. Then they went off to dinner where they heard Bill Murray telling Victor Trevor that he'd lost his watch. 

Sherlock seemed interested. 'Do you need help?'

Bill shook his head. 'Thanks but I've looked everywhere.' He normally gave Sherlock weird looks in the hall, hating the cleverer boy, but he was too upset to even make a face.

'Seriously, I think I can help. Where did you last have it?'


	6. Bill's Missing Watch

Sherlock looked over everything. 'And you're sure it hasn't been anywhere else?'

Bill shook his head. 'No. My mum bought me that watch,' he said despairingly. 'She was so happy I was a wizard--cost her alot of money.'

'Only a Gryffindor could've done it,' John said quietly. 'Right? I mean, no one else can get in.'

'Well, any of the staff can, and the House-elves who clean up,' Sherlock said, crouching surveying the floor. 'But I'm positive it there hasn't been a teacher or a House-elf up here all day.'

'Why not?' John asked as Sherlock sprang up and walked quickly out the door.

'Because of the shoe size,' Sherlock called over his shoulder.

'What?' Bill looked as confused as John felt. They followed Sherlock around the common room, the tall, raven-haired boy bent almost double and seemingly staring at everyone's feet.

Sherlock sighed, straightening up. 'Has anyone seen my cat?' He looked around the common room and then dropped to his knees to look under the sofa. 'Aha! C'mere you little rascal--I need you.'

Sigerson slipped out slowly and gazed at Sherlock almost defiantly as he picked the cat up, walking back to the boy's dormitory.

'Here.' Sherlock sat Sigerson on the ground and pointed to the ground and pointed to the floorboards with his toe. Sigerson bent his face to the floor, smelling it.

'What're you...?' John asked weirdly.

'Just wait. He's gotta--yes!' Sigerson had shot off back down the stairs with Sherlock following excitedly. 'If I'm right,' Sherlock muttered, 'it should be the third year boy with the orange hair...'

Sigerson went up to the other first year Gryffindors, smelling their shoes. Sherlock looked at them each time and said, 'No Sigerson, not that one.'

And lastly, Sigerson went up to the boy with orange hair, smelled his feet, and sat down, mewing proudly. Sherlock grinned and tapped the boy on the shoulder.

'What d'you want?' the boy asked. His eyes flicked over to John and Bill, standing behind Sherlock.

Sherlock held out his hand. 'Bill Murray's watch, if you wouldn't mind.'

The boy's jaw dropped. He sputtered, trying to feign innocence, 'I--I don't--'

Sherlock sighed and pulled the watch out of the boy's pocket. 'Don't you?' he said, dangling it in front of the boy's eyes.

Sherlock gave the watch to Bill.

'Thanks Sherlock. But how did you know it was him?' Bill asked, pocketing the watch. 'We've never even met before.'

'Footprints,' Sherlock said, still looking at the boy with orange hair. 'I put a powder I'd made accidentally, in potions, on the floor of the dormitory. It picks up footprints really well. I thought it might be something fun for me to do in my spare time, but a practical use came of it.'

'So you recognised his shoe print in the powder?' John asked. He was shocked by this--he'd thought the floorboards were just discoloured.

'Sort of.' Sherlock pointed to their feet. 'It's a first year dorm. We all have relatively small feet. But the prints I saw were larger. Not by too much, but enough for it to be someone slightly older-and therefore taller-than us. By looking at his shoes, I thought the prints would match.' He smiled, nudging Sigerson with his foot. 'Awhile ago, when I first put the powder down, I noticed Sigerson kept smelling all of our shoes. Obviously the powder had a scent that attracted Sigerson. So Sigerson, of course, would be able to find everyone who'd been in the dormitory. Which led us to you.' Sherlock looked sternly at the boy.

'Amazing,' John said admiringly.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Simple enough.' He frowned. 'But what I don't understand is how you knew about the watch. Like Bill said, you've never met. And even if you had, he said he hasn't shown it to many people.'

The boy shifted uneasily. 'I'm not rich,' he said quietly. 'Far from it. I really need money, but I didn't know how to get any. But I heard rumours of a...person...who could help. Eventually, I was told who had something of value in my house that I could pinch.' He winced. 'I was gonna sell it at the first visit to the village.' He shook his head.

'How did you get in touch with the...person?' Sherlock asked.

The boy shook his head. 'I can't say. That was part of the agreement. I get help, I give them a cut of the gold, and I can't say anything...or else...' He swallowed. 'They threatened to kill me.'

'"They?"' Sherlock asked. 'Who? It's more than one person? Organising, what, other thefts?'

The boy would only shake his head.


	7. Consequences

John wrote home that night, excited and puzzled by what had happened that day.

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Hogwarts is amazing. There's really no other way to explain it. We have lots of fun classes, and a few boring ones. My favourite are Herbology (where we study plants) and Defense Against the Dark Arts. It's alot of work, but really cool._

_I've also made a friend. Sherlock Holmes. I met him on the train here, and he's been really interesting ever since. He doesn't seem to get along with the others--or rather they don't get along with him. He's clever, not at all interested in sport, and kind of lonely. I suppose that just really makes him a target. But he's also the best friend I ever had._

_Today, a third year stole a watch from our dorm mate, Bill Murray. Sherlock was able to find out who did it really fast. It was amazing._

_The teachers are nice, except for Snape, who seems to hate everyone except the people in his own house (guess what, not mine) but even his class is interesting. Sherlock's a genius at it, by the way._

_Anyway, that's about it. I miss you both. And I'm having loads of fun. (And I guess hello to Harry.)_

_Love, John_

 

'Heard you prevented a theft,' Klein said, bumping into Sherlock as he finished washing his hands in the bathroom. It was a break between classes, students rushing to get where they needed to be in the halls.

Sherlock turned around to face Klein and the fifth year Hufflepuff standing by the stalls. 'And? It wasn't your problem.'

'You'd be surprised.' Sherlock looked at Klein, and then caught sight of the long gash on his arm, shirt rolled up at the sleeve. 

'Had an accident, did we?' Sherlock said, smirking a little. The he turned to grab his bag. Klein grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt and then threw him forward into the mirror.

The glass broke under Sherlock's face and he gasped int pain. But he saw Klein moving for another hit in the reflection in the mirror, and at least had the sense to duck out of the way.

Klein's fist shattered the remaining glass and he growled in anger and pain. And then Sherlock's fist hit him in the side of the face. The Hufflepuff boy jumped forward, but then a voice called, 'What's going on in here?'

Sherlock turned his face away from Flitwick's line of sight so the man wouldn't see his bruised and cut face. The Hufflepuff boy put his hands under the running tap as if washing them and Klein stood to block Flitwick's view of the mirror.

'Nothing,' they all said quickly.

Flitwick looked at them all sternly. 'Well, finish up. You shouldn't be hanging around in the lavatory.' And he gave them another suspicious gaze as he left.

Klein grabbed Sherlock's shoulder roughly before Sherlock could walk out. 'Be on your guard,' he said dangerously. 'There'll be more coming to you for hitting me. And no more playing detective!'

'Flying lessons,' John sang as he put his books on the table next to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up 'What?'

'We have flying lessons tomorrow,' John exclaimed. 'Outside, in the afternoon!' Then he caught sight of the nasty bruise on Sherlock's face. 'Whoa--Sherlock, what happened?'

Sherlock turned away from John quickly. 'It's nothing...' But John leaned over and put a hand on Sherlock's head, turning it gently to the light. Sherlock flinched at John's touch, pulling his head away, but kept his face angled, the bruise in sharp relief in the flickering candlelight, outlining his left cheekbone.

'This isn't "nothing",' John said, exasperated. 'Who did this?'

'Klein,' Sherlock said quietly as John sat down next to him. 'Cornered me in the bathroom. He was upset. I hit him back pretty hard though...'

'Sherlock...' John swallowed, looking at the bloody mark. 'You need to tell a teacher--you can't just keep putting up with this.'

'I told you, I hit him back,' Sherlock said irritably. 'That's not exactly putting up with it...He was angry though--' Sherlock caught sight of the look on John's face. 'I'm sure it's nothing. Honest, John, just don't worry about it. I finished the Transfiguration essay if you need help with yours.'

John closed his eyes and bit his lip, wanting to talk more about Klein and Moriarty, but Sherlock was already pulling out his book and essay.

 

John loved flying as soon as he left the ground. It was incredible. He and Sherlock had laughed at a few of the Slytherins who'd been able to get their brooms into the hands from the ground. The same Slytherins were now struggling in the air to keep their brooms under control.John thought of what sherlock had said: Quidditch was a sport played on brooms. He thought he might like to try as soon as he could.

He looked around at the others flying around, Sherlock near the castle, and grinned. He was having fun. He watched Sherlock for a while before flying away. The other boy was really good--a natural.

Someone flew by John very fast and John turned in mid-air to see Klein flying in the opposite direction, colliding into Sherlock, forcing the boy into the wall. One of Klein's hands was firmly grasping Sherlock's broom as he flew in the other direction. Sherlock, already dazed, was pulled off his broom and fell.

Sherlock hit the ground with a thud and a sharp crack, shortly followed by his scream of pain. John flew down and landed a few feet from him, hurrying over to where Sherlock was laying on his side, clutching his leg in pain and trying not to cry out.

John swallowed heavily and then turned to see Klein grinning. 'You--!' John lunged at him, grabbing the boy violently and tackling him to the grass.

'Enough! WATSON, KLEIN!' Madam Hooch pulled them apart. 'Detention, Watson. Double for you Klein!'

'He attacked me!' Klein protested, but Hooch had already turned away, bending over Sherlock.

'Just breath Holmes...It's broken; you're gonna need the hospital wing...'

 

After dinner, Sherlock limped into the common room and quietly sat beside John at the table, avoiding a few of the first years' stares.

'Better?' John asked.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yeah. Just stiff and sore...but I'm fine.' He sighed. 'McGonagall was interrogating me about why Klein would like to push me from a broom...She was really upset.' Sherlock shook his head.

'At least...at least you weren't seriously hurt...' John said in a small voice. 'Next time I see that bastard--'

'Careful; you've already got detention,' Sherlock warned.

'It was worth it. 'John looked murderous. 'I just wish I'd gotten to hurt him some more.'

Sherlock looked at John and then looked away. 'Thanks John, but you don't have to do this. It's got nothing to do with you.'

'Yes it does.' Sherlock looked up, frowning and John pressed on. 'If it involves them hurting you, it is my problem. You're my friend--I can't let them torture you like this.'

Sherlock started at 'friend'. 'Friend? You--Really?'

John nodded. 'Of course. Why wouldn't I?' Sherlock looked at him and then looked down, smiling quietly.


	8. Murder

It shocked John when he realised that he'd been at Hogwarts almost two months. Things seemed to be flying by, but going well. So much had been going on, but it all made John happy.

Sherlock came in, looking thoughtful.

'What's up?' John asked, putting down his quill. 'Did something happen?'

'Well...Sort of.' Sherlock sighed. 'One of the school governors was killed last night.'

'What? How? Where?'

'Right here on the grounds.' Sherlock sat down beside John, frowning. 'He apparently had a meeting with Rathe, then, two hours later, was found dead. Some sort of weird burns, apparently, almost like an explosion.'

'Huh.' John sat back in his chair. 'I wonder what he had to see Rathe about.'

'Not sure. Rathe is pretty influential with the school though. And the Moriartys are close with the Malfoy family... Lucius Malfoy is a school governor. They probably have alot to discuss.' Sherlock was still frowning, and his voice was distant, as it always was when he was in deep thought.

John left Sherlock knowing it was the best thing to do as the boy would not want to be disturbed. He went upstairs to the dormitory to put away his books.

A large, brown owl was there to greet him. It dropped an envelope on John's bed and then swiftly flapped off through the window.

John picked up the letter and read it quietly.

_Dear Mr. Watson,_

_I have gained intelligence that you have become close to Sherlock Holmes. As an interested party in his affairs, I would like to give you a large sum of money if you were to relay to me his safety every so often. Think it over, John Watson. I will be in touch._

And there, scrawled at the bottom of the letter, were two thick letters 'M H'. John felt a shiver go up his spine. He ran down the stone steps two at a time and showed the letter to Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted at it. 'Expect another one by Friday,' he said bored, flinging the letter back at John.

'But who is "MH"?' John asked.

Sherlock laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. 'My arch enemy,' he said off-handedly.  

'Of course you've got an arch-enemy,' John muttered under his breath. 'But who is he?'

Sherlock sighed. 'The most dangerous man you'll ever meet, and definitely not either of our problem right now.' He stood swiftly. 'C'mon, it's lunchtime.'

That night Sherlock sneaked out of the common room and out onto the grounds. It wasn't long before he found the sight of the murder. He didn't want to light his wand for fear of attracting attention, so he knelt down and squinted at the ground.

It did look like an explosion. The ground was ravaged. And marks of blood showed where the body had been thrown. Sherlock felt the deep indent in the ground where whatever it was must have hit. Then he raised his fingertips to his face and stared at them as he rubbed them together. 'A potion?' he muttered. Then he smelled his fingertips.

Sherlock took one last look around before standing up and leaving.

 

Halloween soon came quickly after that. Sherlock had been spending some time in the library, looking through books on potions and refusing any questions from John. There had also been a few small problems for Sherlock to solve. But despite however many people he helped, everyone still seemed to dislike him.

Sherlock had also been trying in vain to teach John wizard chess. But John was rubbish at it, so he eventually gave up.

'No, it's fine,' he said shrugging when John had apologised. 'It's just...I can't find anyone to challenge me.

 

Sherlock's going to be late, John thought as he stood outside the common room. Unless he'd already started down to the feast.

John decided that he'd head down, hoping to catch Sherlock on the way down, unless his friend had been held up by Moriarty or Klein--then John would have to find him anyway.

He was on the forth floor when he heard the loud thunderous noise. He hesitated and then hurried up to the floor above him.

'John?'

Sherlock came down corridor behind him. 'You heard it too?'

John nodded. 'Should we check it out or go get help or...?'

'Everyone else is down at the feast.' Sherlock began walking again. 'Let's go find out what's going on.'

The didn't have far to go before they found out. The corridor was collapsed a few yards ahead of them.

'What happened?' John asked. He looked at Sherlock. 'D'you--?'

'Shut up.' Sherlock spoke quietly, listening. 'I think someone's in that.'

John was silent for a little while and then he heard it--a low groan from the rubble. 'Dammit. Who's in there?'

Sherlock pulled out his wand. 'Wingardium leviosa!' He began levitating some away from the pile.

John began to help, wondering what would have caused the collapse. It was odd. No matter how old this castle was, it never seemed in danger of collapse.

Soon they had uncovered Rathe.

'Professor?' Sherlock asked, stepping forward.

'Thank you,' Rathe gasped, standing slowly. John held out a hand to help him up. 'I don't know what happened...it just all caved in...'

Sherlock was staring at Rathe's right hand.

'What is it, Holmes?' Rathe asked, looking at his own hand.

'Oh, nothing...your ring just caught the light and I noticed it...' Sherlock looked up and smiled. 'Are you alright sir?

Rathe grinned, sticking his hand in his pocket, out of sight. 'Perfectly fine, thanks to you two...' He sighed. 'Let's just get down to the feast. I shall inform the headmaster of this afterward...'

Sherlock sniffed the air once, before turning away, frowning more deeply.

Once they'd taken their seats at the Gryffindor table, John turned to Sherlock. "What did you smell in there?"

Sherlock frowned again. "Some kind of potion, one I think is dangerous..." he didn't elaborate anymore, and refused to answer John's questions.


	9. Threats

Sherlock and John sat at the Gryffindor table a few days later and John began piling his plate with food. He looked over at Sherlock's--empty. 'You alright?'

Sherlock twitched and then looked at John. 'Yeah...Just thinking.' He took a sip of pumpkin juice, looking deep in thought.

'About...Rathe?' John asked. 'Why were you so interested in his ring?'

Sherlock looked at John. 'I've seen two like it before. One on a Professor here who died during the summer a few years back, and one was worn by the governor who was killed earlier this month.'

John regarded Sherlock carefully. 'They all wore the same ring, and two of them are dead...'

Sherlock nodded. 'And I'm guessing that cave in wasn't an accident either.' John remembered Sherlock talking about the smell of a potion and wondered if it was connected.

'But what does the ring mean?' John asked. 'A group...? Or what?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'All three of them were at Hogwarts. All three were in Slytherin. And all three wore the ring and have been attacked or are dead.' Sherlock looked up. 'The ring has to tell us something. Maybe there are more members. Maybe...'

 

Sherlock spent the next few weeks in the library. Eventually, he'd found the ring.

'It was a symbol of a member of a Defense Against the Dark Arts group,' Sherlock said, looking at the Prophet article he'd found. 'Six students... two are dead--Rathe was in the group...' Sherlock looked up, his eyes searching. 'Something isn't right here...'

'What?'

'Rathe is here, at Hogwarts. The second governor was killed here a month ago. The first is dead, one is in the Ministry, the other two not in school...Who's killing them? Who would've come on Halloween?'

''Rathe was the last person to see that governor,' John pointed out. "And he was also attacked. He must know something about it."

'Yeah...' Sherlock was still thinking. 'Maybe I'll ask him about it after class.'

 

There were a few more thefts Sherlock solved in November. No one, however, wanted to tell who'd organised them, and Sherlock was getting frustrated.

'It has to be the same person, doesn't it?' John asked. 'They were all organised, and threatened.'

'I wish SOMEONE would give them up,' Sherlock muttered.

Later that class, Sherlock's potion exploded. Luckily, he and John were in the storeroom getting ingredients. The class was full of snickers as Snape made Sherlock and John clean it up.

The first Quidditch match of the season was that month, and John was excited. And and Sherlock headed down to the pitch along with the rest of the school, though Sherlock was far from eager. 'I could be doing something useful,' he moaned.

John sighed. 'Sherlock, please, it's almost the weekend. Cheer up a little?'

Sherlock sighed. 'Sorry. I know you like sports.' He smiled a little. 'I'll try.'

Nearly as soon as Sherlock and John had taken their seats a cold quiet voice came from behind them.

'Sherlock--Been meddling, as I hear.'

John and Sherlock both turned to see Moriarty behind them.

'And what does that mean to you?' Sherlock asked coolly. Moriarty sat between three large Slytherins. John sighed, hoping Sherlock wouldn't say anything for Moriarty to require their services.

'Well, I'm interested in any sort of chaos...Give me a spark; I'll set it alight and watch it burn.' Moriarty chuckled briefly but the smile left his face all too soon. 'But you, Sherlock, you don't like that, do you? You can't leave a problem unsolved, little ones, and big ones, if I've heard correctly...My uncle was a little spooked by that corridor collapsing on him.'

A cheer went up-Hufflepuff had scored.

'What do you know about those murders, Sherlock?' Moriarty asked dangerously.

'I know enough. And I know that that incident with Rathe wasn't an accident.'

Moriarty's voice was slow and soft. 'What. Do. You. Know?'

'Why do you care?' John asked roughly. Moriarty looked at him calculatingly. 'Are you gonna try to stop him if he works out who's killing these people?'

'Johnny-boy, I think you are going a bit too far.'

'Or too close?' Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at Moriarty. 'What do you know about this?'

Moriarty sighed. 'Drop it, Sherlock, just drop it. Didn't you learn anything from Klein?'

' _You_ sent Klein to hurt him?' John growled angrily.

'Tut tut, John. I've done nothing. Except take an interest in dear Sherlock's affairs. And right now he is going down the wrong path,' Moriarty sighed resignedly. 'I'd better be off--'

John stood. 'No. You can't hurt him and then just walk away.'

'John--' Sherlock looked at him.

'NO! I can't let them do that--'

One of the Slytherins punched John hard in the face. John fell, sprawling into the row of stands in front of them.

'John!' Sherlock looked up glaring at Moriarty.

'Ta, Sherlock Holmes.' Moriarty saluted and walked away, his Slytherins flanking him.

Sherlock vaulted over the row, landing cat-like next to John, who was kneeling, clutching head his. 'John? John, are you alright?'

'Yeah...ow...Sherlock--!'

Sherlock had grabbed John's shoulder, trying to look at John's head. 'You're bleeding--'

John shook Sherlock off him 'It's fine. I'm fine. Just hurts a bit. ... Sorry, Sherlock...' He stopped. 'You alright?'

The boy had closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. 'Yeah just don't... do that. Put yourself in danger for me.'

'They hurt you,' John said softly. 'They can't do that to you.'

'Please...' Sherlock looked up at John. 'Don't do that again.' His eyes fixed on the blood on John's head.


	10. December

'Where are you going?' John asked Sherlock as the boy stood up from the table where they were working.

'Library,' Sherlock replied. 'And then to Snape's. And yeah, I'll be careful,' he added, as John was about to caution against Moriarty and the others.

The rest of the month followed like this, Sherlock spending much of his free time reading up on potions and spending time with Snape. Until--

'Another one's been killed!' Sherlock announced after scanning through the Prophet over breakfast.

'What?' John was still half-asleep, hurriedly trying to scribble out a charms essay. 

'Look--another one. Killed in the village. Same weird explosive death.' Sherlock grinned. 'Proves he hasn't given up yet.'

'What?' John looked at Sherlock, ignoring how pleased the boy was with murder. 'You can't know who's killing them.'

'I had a theory, not too long ago. C'mon. I don't want to be late for Rathe.' Sherlock made a face.'

Sherlock one day had stayed after a class to ask Rathe about the attack on him in the corridor, and ever since, Rathe had been nasty to him. Sherlock hadn't told him what they'd said, and John didn't ask. The boy was very secretive sometimes. But John wondered if Sherlock had pried Rathe, asking if he knew the killer. Or asked a different sort of personal question. Sherlock was careful, but not too respectful of teachers.

 

Soon, the grounds were covered with blankets of snow, and John was looking forward to Christmas break. As much as he loved the castle and classes, he was feeling worn out from the work and all that was going on with Sherlock. And he missed his family, even harry, if he was honest.

'I assume you're visiting your family for Christmas?' Sherlock asked the day before break.

'Um, yeah. Of course,' John answered. 'What, you're not?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No...erm...staying here.'

'Family doesn't want you?' John said jokingly.

Sherlock looked down. 'Yeah, actually." John instantly felt guilty. He didn't know anything about Sherlock's family. "I mean...my brother's in government, and he's a git, so...it wouldn't be much fun to...um...'

'What about your parents?' But John could tell even as he said it that Sherlock's parents were not something to bring up.

'What parents?' Sherlock snapped gruffly. Then he saw the look on John's face and sighed. 'I'm sorry, John. I know you're just asking..."

"No I forgot, that first day on the train, Moriarty implied that your mother wasn't alive anymore." Sherlock looked away and John bit his lip. "I just never hear you talking much about your family at all, so I was curious I guess."

"It's fine," Sherlock muttered. "Believe me, I'll be glad to stay over break. And it'll give me more time to get work done with Snape; he let me know he'll be in the castle over the holidays as well."

"Maybe he doesn't have a family to go back to," John said, feeling sorry even though he disliked Snape.

"Maybe," Sherlock said.

John hesitated. "You could always come to my place, you know. I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind."

"I'm not very good with new people or families," Sherlock said. "Or muggles really."

"Says the half-blood," John said lightly. Sherlock's face drooped slightly. John took the message; talk of Sherlock's family wasn't good.

"Really John, I'll be fine. You have fun over the holidays."


	11. The Arch-Enemy

Even Harry was tolerable over Christmas. John's family was happy to see him, and amazed by his stories of his classes and the castle.

On Christmas, John opened his window to let an owl in. It was carrying a gift wrapped in brown paper. The owl hooted before flapping off through the window.

John opened the package. It was a large book on some of Europe's Quidditch teams. 

'Wow,' John muttered, flipping through it and watching the players speed through their photos. 'This is incredible....'

 

On the last morning before break, John found a note on his window sill.

John Watson-  
In our mutual interests of Sherlock Holmes, you would do well to meet me on the street outside your house at 12.00pm.  
            MH

Again, the initials marking the signature gave John a chill. But a few minutes before twelve, he went outside as the note asked.

A tall, eighteen year old with a long nose was there to meet him outside. Or at least, he appeared to be eighteen. There was a certain aged-ness to his face that, for a moment, made John believe he was older.

The man smiled upon seeing John. 'I thought you'd come,' he said quietly. 'Good.'

'What do you want?' John asked, trying not to think of how the boy knew where he lived and concentrate on how angry he was at the man. 'And what does this have to do with Sherlock?'

'I'm concerned about his well-being.'

The way he said it sent another shiver up John's spine. 'Really? Concerned in what way?'

'I worry about him. Constantly.' The man's voice was hard and curiously low as he said it.

'Nice of you.' John regarded him carefully. Something about him was familiar. The eyes, maybe, or the facial shape. 'But why do you need me?' John noticed just then that the man was casually holding an umbrella, despite the snow.

'You have become remarkably close to Sherlock Holmes, a commendable achievement.' MH nodded to John. 'And the one who is closest to him should be able to tell me a few things about him. You see, he doesn't have friends. But he has got me.'

'He called you his "arch-enemy",' John said accusingly.

The man chuckled. 'Did he now? That, I suppose, is about right. But John, can you honestly think of anyone who can be more concerned about him?'

'Yes. Me.' And John turned to walk inside.

'It's soon to be a war, John. You're welcome to it. But you must choose a side.'

John shivered but went inside and locked the door before looking out for MH. The man was gone.


	12. Sherlock's Discoveries

The rest of the break passed fairly quickly after that. Soon John was packing his things and saying goodbye to his family. On the train back to Hogwarts, John could only think of MH, Moriarty, and the murders of those wearing rings. He hoped Sherlock would have some answers.

But when John hurried up to the dormitory, Sherlock wasn't there. John checked the library first before wandering the halls. Then he tried Snape's classroom.

'What are you doing here, Watson?'

John swallowed and turned to face Snape. 'I... was looking for Sherlock. He'd been here alot so...erm...'

'Five points from Gryffindor.' 

John closed his mouth, trying not to protest. 'Fine....'

'Mr. Holmes is in the hospital wing,' Snape said softly. 'He was injured yesterday afternoon and I have not seen him since.' He glared at John. 'Now get out of my sight before I give you detention.'

John hurried out of the dungeons and up the stairs. Injured? What had happened.

He was angry at himself for leaving Sherlock. If Klein or Moriarty had hurt him again, John was going to kill them.

The sight of the hospital sent another pang of worry through John, but he went through the door.

John breathed a sigh of relief after looking around. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, looking thoroughly bored.

'Sherlock!' John said, sitting in the chair beside his bed. 'Not bloody Moriarty or Klein again,' he said quietly.

Sherlock smiled guiltily. 'Er...no, nothing like that.'

'Then what?' John looked at Sherlock's bandaged hand and neck.

Sherlock smiled embarrassed.   'Erm, well...' he pulled the sleeve of his pajamas to reveal his whole arm, bandaged.

'What happened?'

'I was experimenting with a potion and...It, well, it exploded.' He grinned sheepishly.

John shook his head. 'You're lucky you weren't killed, or hurt any worse...What is this, just burns?'

'Um...Nasty burns, yeah. Can't use my left arm right now. Apparently burned some of the muscle away. Don't worry!' Sherlock said hastily, looking guilty again as he saw John's face. 'Please, John, I'm fine.'

'Fine, fine.' John sighed. 'What were you experimenting with?'

Sherlock's eyes lit up. 'Ah!. Well, I was trying to make a controlled explosive. Something that might reproduce the effects that killed those three men. And would've collapsed a corridor on Rathe.'

Oh.' John thought back. 'That's why you've been working with Snape and in the library all this time?'

Sherlock nodded. 'I needed a potions expert. Obviously, I, a first year, would never be able to do this alone. But with a few books, and Snape --He is a potions master, the title isn't an exaggeration--we've nearly found it.'

'But it exploded--on you,' John pointed out, thinking that Sherlock had been lucky that Snape had been there, even if it was Snape. Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking.

'Yeah, I was lucky Snape was there. Though, I wouldn't have been there long...his office is right there. He...would've heard the screaming...'

John tried to push the image of Sherlock screaming on Snape's floor from his mind. 'But you've definitely found what's hurting--and killing--these guys?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yeah. Whoever it is has to be really good with potions. And, I think they'd have to have broken into Snape's storeroom.'

'Wait, someone broke into--?'

Sherlock nodded. 'A few times throughout the year, apparently. Taking the ingrediants that we used to make the explosive.' He sat back and looked away. 'I don't like it in here...' he muttered.

'Why?' John asked quietly.

'Make me ... I don't know ... unsettled...' Sherlock shook his head. 'So the deaths, why're they so far apart?'

John thought for a few moments. 'Well, the first one was ages ago...that it might not be the same? That was...an experiment?'

Sherlock nodded. 'I think that the killer tested out his potion on the first one, and it exploded, Just like it exploded on me...But he wasn't so accomplished that he could fine-tune it so quickly. So it took him until this year to perfect it.'

'And now he's using it to kill everyone,' John said, thinking it through, 'but he can only do it when he has the potion...it must take a while to make, then...that, and that he's got to steal from Snape.' John paused, a horrible thought hitting him. 'so...so the killer...'

'The killer is in the school,' Sherlock finished triumphantly. His eye were shining.

John felt a chill go up his spine. A killer was in the school. 'so...it could be anyone we know?'

'Probably not a student,' Sherlock said, shaking his head.

'Why...?' John paused. 'well, you are the best at potions in our year, probably of anyone...' He could see Sherlock trying to fight back a blushing smile. 'And no student would get into Snape's storeroom...'

Sherlock nodded. 'So...?'

'So a teacher?' John asked. He blinked. 'Who...?'

Madam Pomfrey came to shoo John away. 'He needs rest.'

Sherlock waved as John left, looking miserable and bored again.


	13. Snape and Carl Give Some Help

Sherlock had once again ignored John's talk of MH, Sherlock's arch enemy.

Eventually, though, the pressing needs of classes took his mind off things. Sally Donovan could only talk of exams--She was apparently desperate to ace them. When she stepped into Tranfiguration on the first day back, she was in a flurry of questions, notes, and non-stop talking. 

John seemed to be doing better with studying as they entered mid-April.

'You have to get some in,' John said, leafing through his Herbology textbook.

'Ugh, studying. Studying is boring,' Sherlock moaned, leading back in his chair.

John laid down his quill, sighing. 'So what's that, then?' he asked, pointing to the object in Sherlock's lap. 

'Oh.' Sherlock held it up. It was a skull. 'Found it in a classroom. Figure I can talk to it when you're not around.'

'When am I not around?' John asked.

'Quite a bit. You do have other friends...'

John was quiet. Then--'At this rate, you're gonna fail Astronomy, History of Magic, and some of Charms.'

'But I'll have aced Potions and Defense Against the Dark arts, and done well in Transfiguration and Herbology...' He sighed. 'Flitwick won't mind, he likes me...and Astronomy and History of Magic are stupid anyways.'

As they headed to the Great Hall later that day, Snape came up from the dungeons. 'Holmes!' he snapped.

Sherlock stopped and then walked over. 'Yes Professor?'

'My stores were broken into last night.' Snape looked at Sherlock peircingly. 'Although I am confident that your interest in this potion and its applications is academic and out of interest only, I am hoping it was not you. I do not wish to be disappointed.' Snape averted his eyes. 'It would appear that there is less than a month, if you were correct. I think we could all do without another death...' And he strode away, black cloak swishing behind him.

'Wait, he knows what's happening here?' John asked, looking from Snape's leaving figure to Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking after Snape thoughtfully. 'He doesn't miss much, does he?' He continued walking to the Great Hall, and sat down. 'Still, none of us know... who the killer is...or why he's doing this. We're nowhere, and running out of time...'

'Snape seems to like you,' John commented. 'He let you work in his room, use his stores, helped you when you were hurt, now he's tipping you off about the ingrediants stolen. But you're in Gryffindor.'

Sherlock looked down. 'Maybe he sees past the uniform....'

'What's that supposed to mean?' John asked.

'Nothing, John...' Sherlock shook his head.

The next month passed far to fast for John's liking. The small thefts and other crimes that Sherlock had been solving had all but disappeared. Which was a good thing. With the amount of homework their professors were giving them, Sherlock and John didn't have much time for anything else.

They'd passed Moriarty in the halls a few times and the fifth year still gave them a slight sneer as they passed. But Moriarty had been even busier than them—he'd been preparing for his OWLs.

'So when will the attack happen?' They'd just finished some of Snape's homework ad were taking a brief break. The library was busy, even this late after dinner, so Sherlock and John had gotten a table in the far back, relatively undisturbed. 'This would be the last one, right? Apart from Rathe, who hasn't been killed yet.'

Sherlock looked up. 'Should be soon. I'm pretty sure I'll know when it's about to happen…' He looked above John's head. 'However, I haven't been idle while we're waiting.' He closed the book he'd been reading. 'Carl.'

John turned around to see Carl Powers, who walked around to John's right.

'Hi John. Sherlock, I've done it. Got it right here.' Carl tossed a bag to Sherlock and Sherlock caught it.

'What is it?' John asked, looking forward to see the bag.

'Twelve ounces of gillyweed,' Carl proudly proclaimed. 'Let's you breath underwater for a bit.'

'But what are you doing with it?' John asked. 'I thought you could only get this from Snape's…oh.'

Sherlock's eyes were shining. 'Twelve stolen ounces of gillyweed.' He grinned, slightly gleeful.

John frowned. 'So…this is all to get that "organisation", isn't it?'

'Yep. The crimes that were all around the school. They were all organized by the same people. Mostly Slytherins, by the sound of it. The students wouldn't tell where they'd gotten anything. Information, things stolen from teachers, keys to rooms…'

'And you had Carl…' John looked at him. 'Because he's a swimmer!' Carl nodded.

'It would be convincing, me asking for gillyweed. And you're right, Sherlock, it was Slytherins. I was put in touch through several people. By owl only. Had to be short notes, 100 words or less at a time.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I need to know why the group is doing this. It's not for money, they've got plenty if that…

'But…' John exchanged a look with Carl. 'If not for money…?'

'What else would they want?' Carl asked. 'They get a lot of profit from this, by the sound of it.'

Sherlock's eyes were far away. 'The rumours. Rumours of these crimes amongst the students. Shadows and whispers, and a name no one says. It creates an illusion, you see. And once he's got that, whoever it is will have the power to do a lot more than just mess around here.' The corner of his mouth turned up, his lopsided smirk. 'He's good. Interesting.'

John frowned and Carl looked at Sherlock curiously. 'Riiight-o. Well, Sherlock, I'd better be off. Studying for exams. But I can pry a bit more if you want, and get back to you with anymore information…'

'No.' Sherlock shook his head sharply and looked up at Carl. 'Don't get into this any more. It could be dangerous.'

Carl shrugged and walked away.

'If he does anything and Klein or somebody hurts him,' Sherlock muttered.

'It'll be okay,' John said quietly, hoping himself that their third year friend wouldn't get into trouble.


	14. Confronting the Killer

John started awake. It was late. He looked at his watch—1.30 am—and yawned. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he noticed two things. One, Sherlock wasn't in his bed. And second, there was a note lying on his chest.

      John-  
      The final member of the group (apart from Rathe) who hasn't been killed was at the castle today, having a meeting with Dumbledore. Spotted two adults-one was him—heading down to the boat house. There was no time to wake you-or a teacher-a man's life is at stake. It's 1.20 now. If you get this within the hours, you might be able to wake a teacher and get help.  
      Sherlock

The note was scrawled in a handwriting much worse than Sherlock's usual. No matter how hurried he'd been, at least the boy had left a note.

'Dammit Sherlock…' John quickly pulled on his jeans, almost tripping over as he tried to run while doing so. If Sherlock was in the boathouse with the killer, then there wasn't any time to get help. The man was very clever and very deadly—his choice of weapon, the potion, made that clear.

John broke into a run down a secret passage, hoping he'd make it in time.

When he reached the outer wall, he looked over the edge down to the stone steps that lead to the boat house. There was a figure, Sherlock's, sprinting down them quickly.

'SHERLOCK!' John called .

Sherlock stopped for half a heartbeat and then ran, if possible, even faster than before. 

'Stop!' John called, but he realized Sherlock wouldn't stop.

 

'You aren't upholding our group's little arrangement, Jacob.' Rathe's voice was dangerous. 'Actually, none of you were. You had to go. I couldn't let you stand in the way any longer…' He sighed. 'This whole bloody school is a dumping hole now. Dumbledore, The Dark Lord's fall….They've all messed things up. But with people like you out of the way, we will soon make way for the era that is supposed to strike at Hogwarts. I think it's time for you to say goodbye.'

'RATHE!'

Rathe looked around madly for the source of the shout. Then another followed:

'EXPELLIAMUS!'

The wand flew out of Rathe's hand. Rathe reached into the bucket beside him and pulled out a small glob of the exploding potion that filled it.

'This will blow you into a hundred pieces!' Rathe bellowed, still glancing around as he made a circle around Jacob Goodrich. 'SHOW YOURSELF!'

'Run Goodrich!'

The voice was still echoing and disembodied, but Goodrich didn't need telling twice. He pelted to the door. Rathe raised his arm to throw the glob of explosive potion, but Sherlock dropped down from the rafters and landed on all fours, cat-like, his robes flying behind him. He rose quickly, standing between Goodrich, fleeing out the door, and Rathe, posed to strike.

'Don't.' Sherlock's voice was low and dangerous.

'Holmes,' Rathe hissed.

 

John ran down the steps, jumping down every two or so. He wouldn't let Sherlock get hurt this time. He couldn't. 

Goodrich was sprinting up the steps, looking scared out of his mind and worried.

'Don't go down there!' he shouted to John. 'He's gonna kill someone! It sounded like there was a boy—I'm going to get help!' He was at the top of the steps well after John was nearly to the bottom.

 

'You "attacked" yourself. You made that corridor collapse to draw attention away from yourself. You were, after all the last person to be seen with the second murdered man.' Sherlock shook his head. 'It was really good. I wasn't positive that it was you. But then, a real killer wouldn't have let you live so easily after having failed the first time.'

'Very good, Sherlock Holmes. You are a clever one aren't you? My nephew wasn't lying when he mentioned you were a true genius. Rather like him.' He looked at Sherlock, cocking his head. 'I guess you know about this little would-be organization. But how much?'

Sherlock kept his wand trained on the man. 'Oh, your little 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' group? Or your dark arts group. You were in league with Voldemort—yeah, I've said his name—for a bit weren't you? A wanna-be Death Eater. And your group, faux Death Eater group—was devoted. And the prophecy…for a chaotic Hogwarts, a chaotic wizarding world—you few graduated Hogwarts hoping to ensure that would happen. But after Voldemort fell, your members gave up. They thought it was all over. I imagine they all told you they were going clean. Working for Hogwarts or the Ministry…' He sighed. 'But you…you for some reason know the prophecy will happen. How?'

Rathe chuckled. 'Done some digging. You never put effort into my class, but you were good. You don't seem to put much into anything, but this…' He looked at Sherlock. 'I alone heard the prophecy. I know who it tells about. And how I was to start it.' He grinned. 'And that's all you're gonna know in this life. You're too clever.' He looked into the bucket beside him. 'I bet you even know what this is.'

'Controlled explosive. I even know how to make it. I've even felt the failed attempt's effects.' Rathe was staring. 'Oh! Didn't think I'd be that clever, would you? Well now…'

'I'm going to have to kill you now, you know,' Rathe said, looking angry beneath his calculating face. Sherlock sighed.

'Are you going to wait much longer to do so?'


	15. It's Not Over

John slowly poked his head through the door and looked in. The boathouse was a mess. There were a few small fires on bits of wood and blackened areas from burning all around the place. Rathe and Sherlock both looked burned—Rathe had his hands around Sherlock's neck and was pinning him to the ground, choking him, he wand lying far away. John looked around and made up his mind.

'RATHE!'

Rathe's head whipped around and he saw John clutching the bucket of explosive goo. 'If it means you stop hurting people, I'll gladly throw this,' John threatened murderously. 

Sherlock gasped for breath as Rathe released him. He slowly stood, keeping his eyes on John, cold and calculating. Then, swiftly, he hit the rising Sherlock over the head and made a dive for his wand.

'JOHN!' Sherlock called, rising to his knees fast. John looked at him and in that split second, saw what Sherlock wanted.

'You'd better run, Sherlock!' And he threw the bucket to the opposite end of the boathouse.

He ran, hearing two sets of footsteps behind him, one much closer than the other. John'd made it slightly up the steps before the explosion took him off his feet, crashing him several stairs further up.

John laid there for a long time, motionless, hands over his head. His body was trying to decide whether or not it wanted to work. He could feel his forehead bleeding when he finally raised himself, but he ignored I as he turned around to survey the boathouse.

Sherlock was laying, sprawled and motionless, about eight or nine steps down from John. John's stomach clenched in panic, but he didn't move until he was sure—

There. He spotted Rathe's body, immobile beneath a pile of stone and splintered wood at the base of the staircase. There was a lot of blood. John swallowed, realizing the man was most likely dead. But he ignored the thought as he made his way to Sherlock. 

The boy was burned, a lot worse than when John had entered the boathouse, and his head was bleeding steadily from the hairline. But he was alive.

John sighed and sat on the stair next to his injured friend, looking out at the half-standing building. He'd killed a man. Worse yet, he'd hurt Sherlock—could've killed him. He didn't know how—or what—to feel. He put his hand on his friend's limp shoulder and kept it there, waiting for the mess to come. 

 

Midnight the next night Sherlock finally came around, relieving John, despite the terrible groan of pain. Sherlock's eyes were slits and his voice was weak and pained, but the boy was alive.

'John—you're hurt.'

'Not as bad as you, you idiot.' John couldn't help but grinning despite his worry for and exasperation with Sherlock. 'You're worried about _me_?'

Sherlock grinned slight and closed his eyes, taking a stiff breath. 'And Rathe?'

John was quiet for a long tine and Sherlock opened his eyes, looking at him, puzzled. 'What?'

'He's dead.' John looked away.

Sherlock snorted. 'He did kill four people. And almost kill me.' He looked John in the eye. 'You saved me.'

'Nearly killed you is more like it.' John shook his head at Sherlock. Look at you. You're in the hospital wing for the third time this year.'

'Yeah, speaking of which…' Sherlock sat up quickly, wincing. 'I'm awake. I think I can leave now.'

'No!' John hissed. 'It's the middle of the night. You're hurt. You can't just leave.'

'What're you, my doctor now?' Sherlock asked, looking mutinous.

'If I have to be,' John said, grinning slightly again. 'And only a fool argues with his doctor.'

'Well, there are no doctors in the wizarding world,' Sherlock muttered stubbornly. But remained in bed. 'Fine. But if I have some sort of …panic attack…' he sighed, 'I'll blame you.'

John shook his head. 'Pomfrey'll probably only make you stay until the afternoon.'

Sherlock looked around. 'And you've been here…?'

'I was here until the morning when … when the boathouse exploded. Then I came back between classes and… I've been sitting here since dinner.' John looked away. 'It was my fault. I had to make sure you were okay.'

Sherlock was silent for a long time and then he cleared his throat. 'Well…thank you for…that.' He thought for a moment. 'And Moriarty knows about Rathe?'

'Yeah.' John shook his head. 'Didn't seem to broken up about it. Some of the teachers are upset, though.' He sighed and sat back. 'So that's it then. We stopped him. It's all over.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'It's not all over…'


	16. Carl Powers

'SHERLOCK!'

John and Sherlock both turned. Carl was shouting from across the hall, but they were separated by a flood of students.

Carl shook his head. 'Never mind. I'm swimming after lunch. Come and meet me, I've got something to tell you!'

'I hope he didn't go poking around,' Sherlock muttered as they walked into Transfiguration.

'Look! The freak's back!' sally said in a loud whisper to Sebastian. The two had been inseparable for a while--both devoted to taunting Sherlock.

'Who blackened your face, Freak?' Sebastian called. 'I could kiss them.'

Sherlock sat down quietly, pulling out his books, his face hard. 

'You okay?' John asked. He nodded.

John was preoccupied for the rest of the morning with classes and final exam preparations. He didn't think of Carl until Sherlock brought him up at lunch.

'What if he found out something?'

John looked up. 'What, about the organisation?' He swallowed the bit of apple in his mouth. 'Do you think he did?' He thought for a while, feeling worried. 'That...wouldn't be good for Carl, would it?'

Sherlock shook his head and scanned the Hufflepuff table. 'I guess he went to the Lake already,' he muttered. 'C'mon John. We need to find him.'

 

There were five or six people looking anxious near the edge of the lake when they arrived. One was dripping wet, shirtless, and worried. Sherlock ran up to them, John close behind.

'What's going on?' John asked hurriedly. The looks on their faces meant nothing good.

A boy turned to them. 'Carl...went swimming...and a few seconds ago, it looked like he was...having a fit or something...'

'He hasn't come up yet,' the boy who'd been swimming said, his voice low.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and pulled off his robe. 'Dammit....no...'

'Wait! Sher--' John moved to stop him, but Sherlock had already dived into the water.

'What are we going to do?' a Hufflepuff boy asked nervously.

'McGonagall was in the Great Hall, that's close...' John said. 'She might still be there--Get a teacher!' He stepped closer to the lake as the Hufflepuff boy sprinted off. Neither boy was surfacing. John had heard that the lake was miles deep in some places...'C'mon, Sherlock...' He shifted his feet nervously.

After a few more agonising minutes, there was a burst of water as Sherlock came up sputtering. He was clutching Carl's limp body. Then they disappeared under the water again--there were sounds of Sherlock choking for air as he was dragged down by the weight of the other boy. Moments later, they surfaced again, closer to the edge. Sherlock swam towards John, coughing and choking and dragging Carl's limp form through the water.

People had gathered around the lake and were gasping with fear and panic. John waded in and helped Sherlock to drag Carl out of the water. Then he knelt in front of Sherlock as the boy collapsed to his hands and knees, coughing violently and spitting out water.

'Sherlock, are you alright?' John looked at him anxiously. The boy was already injured, this couldn't be good for him. 'Take off your bloody tie, mate, no wonder you can't breathe.'

Sherlock loosened his tie as Professor McGonagall came running down. 'Out of the way!' she shouted at several students. Then She bent over Carl. 'Are you alright, Holmes?'

'What about him?' Sherlock gasped, still trying to breathe.

McGonagall was silent as she checked Carl for vitals and looked over him. Then she let out a breath, sitting back in shock. 'He...he's dead...'  

Sherlock put his head back. 'No...' he moaned, gritting his teeth. 'No, no no....'

'Holmes, are you alright?' McGonagall put her hand on his shoulder, sounding concerned now.

'NO!' Sherlock shouted, shaking her off violently and then standing and running out through the crowd.

'Sherlock, wait!' John followed Sherlock into the Entrance Hall. But even as he said it, just as he had before Sherlock had confronted Rathe and before the boy had dove in water after Carl, John knew Sherlock would never wait. The boy was running by an inner intense fury that showed darkly on his face as he ran up there stairs.


	17. Another Murder

He led them to a tapestry on the forth floor and shouted something at it before stepping behind it, seemingly into the wall. John followed and stopped dead when they were both inside.

'What are we doing here? We're not supposed to be in here.' It was the Hufflepuff common room.

'Anyone know where Carl Powers sleeps?' Sherlock asked. A few of the students looked at him fearfully. 

'Sherlock, what are you doing here?' Mike Stamford walked over. 'I told you it was only for emergencies,' he whispered. 

'And it is, Stamford,' Sherlock hissed. 'Carl Powers. Any third years?'

'I know him...What's wrong?' A boy with brown hair and a round face stepped forward nervously.

'Something happened to him while swimming,' John said quickly before Sherlock could reply all-too-bluntly.

The third years looked worried. 'I'll show you, c'mon.' He led them through a passage and opened a door marked 'Third Year Boys'.  'I share the dormitory with him…'

'Obviously,' Sherlock muttered. He pointed to a bed. 'Carl's?'

The boy nodded. 'Listen, I need to go see what's going on. He's my best mate. You guys are Gryffindors, I trust you.' He hurried out.

'Why?' Sherlock muttered, throwing himself on the floor to look under the bed. 'Why does everyone just assume that all Gryffindors are good…?' He stood quickly, looking around.

'Sherlock!' John grabbed his arm and Sherlock pulled away quickly, looking at John. John ignored it. 'What are you doing?'

'Look,' Sherlock said urgently, looking at John intently. 'Carl was a swimmer—a _strong_ swimmer.' He waved his hand a bit as he spoke. 'He wouldn't have just drowned in the lake. Something's wrong here.' He began looking around the rest of the dorm.

'Sherlock, it was probably just an accident!' But Sherlock wasn't listening.

'Look John.' Sherlock turned to him.

'What am I supposed to be seeing?' John asked. He looked at Carl's things as Sherlock began putting them back exactly as they were.

'His shoes.'

'There aren't any shoes,' John said, shaking his head, wondering if Sherlock was seeing things.

'That's because they're not here.' Sherlock raced out of the dormitory, pat some still-stunned Hufflepuffs and into the corridor. 'That's the other strange, impossible thing.'

'But he went swimming.' John was jogging to catch up with Sherlock's long-legged, furious pace. 'Even you took off yours before you dove in after him.'

'Yes,' Sherlock said impatiently. 'But mine were still there when I'd gotten out of the water.'

'What're you saying? Carl's shoe are just…gone?' John realized where they were-outside the staffroom. 

'Or taken.' Sherlock rapped on the door and McGonagall opened it.

'Holmes?'

'Professor, about Carl Powers…His shoes are gone.'

'And what does that have to do with anything?' She was looking at him strangely.

'They're not anywhere… Someone took them—'

McGonagall looked at him with something like stern sympathy. John supposed it was a kind look, for her at least. 'Holmes, I know you're trying to help. But it was an accident. Carl drowned swimming.'

'It wasn't an accident!' Sherlock protested.

'But you don't have proof of it.' McGonagall sighed. 'Go back to your dormitory. Get some rest. You've had a long week. And you two have got my exam tomorrow.' And she gently closed the door.

Sherlock swore so loudly John thought McGonagall would reappear and give him detention. Then Sherlock stormed up to the seventh floor. 'Why doesn't she _listen_?' He sighed angrily, clenching his fists. 'Carl knew something. And someone didn't want me to know it.'

'Okay…' John followed Sherlock up to the dormitory, where Sherlock vehemently flopped on his bed. 'Who?'

'No id—' Sherlock sat up, drawing a paper out from beneath him. It was addressed to him. Sherlock read it quickly and then handed it to John.

The note was brief:

_He laughed at me. So I stopped him from laughing._


	18. The Beginning

Despite John's pestering, Sherlock refused to show the note to a teacher, probably because he was angry with McGonagall for dismissing him.

Two investigators from the ministry, a detective and a sergeant, were sent by Carl's parents. Sherlock tried to get the detective interested in Carl's missing shoes but again was ignored. John, however, caught the sergeant looking at Sherlock, interested. Before they left, he talked with the boy, briefly.

Despite Sherlock's efforts, Carl's death was ruled as a tragic accident. Sherlock had no proof to the contrary besides missing shoes.  John caught his friend sulking too often, blaming himself, his eyes distant, thinking and thinking

But things moved on.

Sherlock and John both passed their exams, as did all their fellow classmates. Donovan took to bragging about her good marks whenever someone would listen, giving John even more reason to give her a wide berth.

Soon, they were all packing their trunks and digging out missing items. 

John finished packing and looked to Sherlock, who hadn't started yet. He was lying on his bed, looking gloomy, but interested in whatever he was reading in the Daily Prophet.

'Anything interesting?' He knew too well the thoughtful look on Sherlock's face. Something had peaked the boy's attention.

Sherlock cast the Prophet aside and bent over his trunk, finally beginning to pack. 'Oh, nothing really'

But when he went down to the common room to track down a book, John picked up the paper, scanning the page Sherlock had been reading.

There was a photo. And John recognized the two serious-faced wizards even before he read the caption. It was the two who had been called in after Carl's death. Detective E Finch and Sergeant G Lestrade.

 

On the train home, no one bothered Sherlock and John. However, Sherlock was still visibly watching through the glass door as anyone passed by their compartment.

'You're taking that note as a threat, then?'

Sherlock looked at John. Then he nodded. 'Yeah. Carl stuck his nose in too far. Obviously they can tell I'm not going to let it go - or give up.' He sighed. 'Always next year.'

John nodded. Then changed the subject. 'Listen, you've got to stay over at my place this summer.  If you were like that about not going home for Christmas, summer break can't be too much better'

'This summer...will be better than last,' Sherlock said quietly. Then he looked at John intently, as if searching for any signs of a lie. 'You'd really want me over?'

John nodded. 'Sure. I'd be bored without my detective.'

A little while later, the Hogwarts Express was pulling into King's Cross Station. John looked out the window at the platform as the train pulled to a stop. 'Sherlock!'

Sherlock was unloading his trunk. 'Hmm?'

'That man!'

Sherlock and John were at the door to the compartment, when Jim Moriarty passed by. He paused, near the next door, snapped his fingers as if he'd just remembered something, and then turned and walked back to them, hands in his pockets, chewing Drooble's Best Blowing Gum slowly and rhythmically.

Moriarty grinned slightly when he reached them. He nodded at John and then looked at Sherlock. Some unseen conversation seemed to pass between their cold, calculating eyes, and by the end of it--all half-second's worth--they had both nodded.

'Ciao, Sherlock Holmes,' Moriarty purred calmly before walking away.

John looked at Sherlock, confused. The boy was watching Moriarty leave, and a slight smirking grim flitted across his face. Then he looked at John. "Which man?'

'Oh-' John pointed out one of the windows as the continued down the train corridor. 'That one. The eighteen year old, red-brown hair. And the umbrella. That's MHthat's the man I told you about'

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment as they stepped down from the train and then began walking purposefully toward the man. 'I know exactly who he is. Come on, John.'

'You're here in person,' Sherlock said once he'd walked up to the young man. 'Out of the office for once. I'd half-expected "Anthea", or whatever her real name is. I'm amazed the change hasn't given you a heart attack.'

The man grimaced. 'I hear you've poked that long nose of yours into things. Already.' He shook his head. 'This recklessness will get you nowhere, Sherlock, besides to an early death. And I promised Mummy I would look after you.'

Sherlock made a scathing noise. 'Well, she's not here to hold you to it, is she?'

'Wait! Wait-' John looked from one to the other. 'Who's "Mummy"? What's going on? Sherlock, who is he?'

'Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.' Sherlock glared at the young man. 'And how is your diet coming?' He shook his head.

Mycroft glared back. 'Fine.' He sighed. 'Sherlock, you haven't told him much, have you? Your love for the dramatic has increased greatly'

'As has yours.' Sherlock was still glaring. 'I've been hearing loads about your "concern".'

'John!'

John turned and spotted his parents heading towards him. 'Wanna meet my parents?' he asked Sherlock, 'or should we wait for the summer?'

'We should be going,' Mycroft said quickly. Sherlock nodded quickly.

Goodbye, John.'

'Bye, Sherlock. See you soon.' John waved as Sherlock walked off. Then, his mother was pulling him into a hug.

'Who was that, John?' she asked. 'A friend of yours?'

John nodded. 'Yeah. That was Sherlock Holmes.'

**Author's Note:**

> Rathe was the villain in Young Sherlock Holmes, a movie on which the plot of this fic was heavily inspired.  
> In this fic series, I'm trying to include elements of both canon and BBC tv series, as well as the occasional injection of other adaptations.  
> Thank you so much for reading this far; I hope you'll continue to year 2.  
> ***Thank you for 1k views, it means alot***


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